Batman Episode 3: Long Summer
by Raw Sewage Writings
Summary: For Captain Jim Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department, the hunt is on for the mysterious vigilante called 'the Batman' as Gotham City is terrorized by a mad bomber...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was a regular 'who's who,' of Gotham City, all within the brightly lit, cavernous walls of the ballroom in the east wing of Wayne Manor. The vast, marble floor was filled with huddles of the most elite of the metropolis' population, all finely dressed in their absolute best. White tablecloths topped the long buffet tables of colorful orderves displayed on shining silver platters. Off in the corner beside the giant, ornate window, a tuxedoed man sat at a black polished grand piano, playing a gentle overtone of music, quiet enough not to disturb the socializing of the guests. Draped above the wide open mahogany double doors was a long white banner with bold red lettering.

WELCOME HOME BRUCE

The young bachelor's homecoming was the first party in over seventeen years. It had been so long ago, yet Alfred Pennyworth remembered it vividly. It had been the Wayne's' biennial New Year's Eve party, a rather ordinary, uneventful night yet it was the last that the Wayne Manor ball room had been lit with life that year, and every year since till this late April evening. Never once during the evening did Alfred leave eyesight of his master from his post as lead server. It seemed that both he and Bruce Wayne both wore masks that night. Standing in the midst of a group of huddled socialites, he kept a grin on his face as he regaled the gawking crowd. Alfred knew better, he knew Bruce loathed every minute of it. The wise butler hid his own grin with a professional sternness on his face, he was just glad to see his young master happily socializing, even if it was all a performance.

"And next thing I knew, I ended up on a beach in Japan," Bruce said casually. "Excuse me, Taiwan," he corrected himself. "Too much Sake," he added with a grin. The group politely laughed. A man with silvering, gold hair swirled the glass of champagne in his hand.

"Sounds like you had quite the retreat," William Earle smirked. Bruce grinned back with a bemused look in his eyes.

"It had its moments," he said.

"I'm sure. But now that you're back, Bruce," he paused as he casually gazed about the party. "Any plans?"

"Yes I do," Bruce replied. "I'd like to do my part and pick up where my father left off." The man in a dark blue suit with silver streaks in his combed, dark hair frowned at the young host.

"At Gotham General?" he inquired. "I wasn't aware you got your M.D."

"No, Mr. Boyle, I didn't. Ten years of school didn't sit with me," Bruce said. "No I mean with the Wayne Foundation and with Wayne Enterprise, get to see firsthand how my trust fund gets replenished." Earle forced a smile.

"I'm more than happy to humor your curiosity," he said. "I'm sure we can find a place fit for you, Bruce." Bruce eyed the Wayne Enterprise CEO as he gave an accepting nod. He knew better than William Earle suspected.

"Seems I'll have quite the competition with you two other there," Ferris Boyle remarked cheekily. Earle smirked as he looked sideways over at Bruce.

"Ferris here has been quite smug lately, something about kicking up a brand new project at Gothcorp," Earle explained. With each word spoken, Boyle's smirk grew broader and smugger.

"Your investigators can pry all they want, Bill, but I'm afraid we've got you this time."

"We'll see about that," Earle smirked back with a fake tone of friendly competition.

She was enjoying herself. It was obvious by the smile on her face. She loved it all, the crystal glass of champagne in her thin pale hand, the deep red evening gown that never seemed to surface from her closet, even the black suit that hung loosely on him. The two of them stood off to the side of the ballroom, opposite the exquisite buffet table. As her eyes darted about the room in awe, his hardly ever averted from the wide open door or his watch.

"Oh, Honey, look at this, isn't this breathtaking?" she gasped. He tugged his sleeve up, checking his watch once again.

"Yeah, yeah, very nice," he muttered absently. With a scowl, she looked back at her husband.

"Would you stop that?" His gaze lifted to his wife. Her arms were crossed with the champagne glass still pinched in her fingers.

"Stop what?" he shrugged.

"Acting like a jerk," she stated tersely.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said consolingly. "But how much longer do you want to stay?" he inquired with almost a plea.

"Why are you so eager to leave?"

"Look at me," he scoffed. "Do I look like I fit in with these people?" he mumbled with an uncomfortable glance about the cliques of A-listers huddled across the ballroom. Stepping back, she gave a mocking look up and down of her husband wearing a suit slightly too large for him. He certainly wasn't as polished as those around them but he certainly had the potential, and she knew it deep down in her heart.

"Like it or not, yes you do," she answered with a smirk. "Look, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, just enjoy it."

"You and I both know that the only reason we were even invited to this thing is because my face has been in the news," he stated stiffly with a lowered tone. "Do these pompous gas bags know why? Of course not, they're a bunch of brainless socialites with their heads too far up each other's rear ends to care."

"Harvey!" she gasped with a scornful look, smacking his arm with her hand. From behind a broad man dressed in a fine black suit with slick dark hair stepped mere inches from the couple.

"Well it does pay to see things from their point of view at times, just as long as you resurface in the end." Harvey's eyes squeezed shut as his face turned scarlet, though no worse than his wife's. Slowly he turned to face his eavesdropper. Harvey groaned, immediately recognizing their host. Bruce Wayne stood leisurely, with his hands in his pockets. His large frame was just taller than he was and piercing blue eyes seemed to glint jovially along with his fine white teeth bared in a smirk. "ADA Dent, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," Bruce said with an out stretched hand. Sheepishly, Harvey accepted it.

"Well the pleasure's all mine," he said with an uncharacteristically embarrassed smile. "Mr. Wayne, this is my wife, Gilda."

"Please, Harvey, call me Bruce," he said as he gently grasped Gilda's hand in both of his. "Gilda," he greeted warmly. "I am very glad you two came here tonight."

"Oh?" Harvey inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"I've been interested with your work on the Sionis case," Bruce said as he placed his hands back in his pockets. Harvey hid his utter surprise well, yet remained as skeptical as ever, it was simply his nature and what made him such a good lawyer.

"Really," he remarked, refraining from crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

"Roman Sionis was a," he paused to search for the best word. "A childhood acquaintance. His father and mine did some business together," Bruce explained.

"You're not going to try and tell me he's innocent are you?" Harvey asked. Gilda fired another glare his way. Bruce shook his head and waved his hand with emphasis.

"Not at all. He was a crook even then." Harvey felt his face relax as his eyebrow lowered back in place and a grin washed away his skepticism. "No, I think that you fighting to put Sionis behind bars is exactly what Gotham needs. The city has enough criminals, and we need more people like you."

"Back in town for only a couple weeks and already you've a clear idea of what Gotham needs," Harvey mused. "I had no idea you were so interested in city affairs. I mistook you for-."

"Another 'brainless socialite'?" Bruce chuckled with a teasing smirk. Again Harvey's face dipped into scarlet. Gilda suppressed a chuckle behind her hand as Harvey laughed along.

"I apologize for that."

"No need," Bruce waved away the apology. "I am simply interested in the good of Gotham City," he explained. "And I believe that someone like you in a position with more weight is just the thing."

"Then I can count on your vote for DA next year?" Harvey mused. Bruce nodded as he dipped his hand into his suit jacket and retrieved a burgundy leather bound check book and golden pen.

"More than that," he replied. Using a nearby table as a surface, he scrawled the pen in the checkbook then tore it free. Bruce handed the check to Harvey with a sincere look in his sharp blue eyes. With wide, dark brown eyes, Harvey read the amount.

"This is," he stammered. "Bruce I can't accept this."

"Yes you can. Think of it as an investment in Gotham's bright future," Bruce said proudly with a cheesy grin. Everything he did was intentional, playing towards his motive. Harvey and Bruce shook hands again as Harvey carefully slipped the check into his own jacket.

"Bruce, I insist you have dinner in our home sometime," Gilda beamed.

"I'd be happy to," Bruce smiled. "Be sure to leave your contact information with Alfred, my butler." Bruce indicated to the stiff, pristinely suited man posted not far from the buffet table yet within eyesight of his master. With a final goodbye, Bruce excused himself. It seemed finally that he could breathe freely again. Ten years of training his mind and body in the furthest reaches of the globe and none of it prepared him from the exhaustion of pretending to be a spoiled, bachelor socialite, ever in the spotlight, the kind of person everyone expected him to be. He had taken a risk with the Dents, allowing his truer self to show, only time would tell whether it was for the best. Bruce sighed in relief as he brushed his dark hair back.

"Partying, is such tiring business, eh Bruce?" a suave mocking voice said from his left. Bruce paused and turned to find a smug, grinning face. He recognized the face instantly but played the part he'd fabricated for himself.

"I'm sorry, you have me at a disadvantage," he said with a frown.

"Arthur Reeves, I'm a counselor in the District Attorney's office," Reeves explained.

"Oh that's right," Bruce said with a snap of his fingers. "You're running for DA next year." The Councilor nodded as they briefly shook hands.

"I saw you talking with Dent over there," he indicated with a shift of his gaze to where Gilda and Harvey now slowly danced in a tight circle to the music of the piano.

"Just making my rounds with my guests," Bruce explained casually. Reeves hid his skepticism.

"Never took you for someone interested in politics."

"Oh I'm not," Bruce said. "I just like to keep up with the times." Reeves chuckled as he took a step closer to Bruce and eyed him warningly with a shifty smirk.

"You haven't been back in Gotham for long so I'll offer some advice," he said. Bruce instantly scowled but Reeves didn't seem to notice. "If I were you, I wouldn't put any of your money on guys like Harvey. In this town, they don't go very far. Dent's a dead end." Bruce stepped past him with a stern glare.

"Things change, Arthur. Enjoy the party." Reeves watched Bruce walkaway with a scowl of his own. He shook it away, straightening his light blue tie, he did after all have an image to keep intact.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bruce was back in his element. The temperate night seemed still and quiet to the untrained eye, for those not watching. But he was watching. Gotham was his city. He had forced out its most notorious crime lord, Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone and even threw its most dangerous criminal, Black Mask, behind bars. More would come to threaten the peace of Gotham and he would be ready for them when they did, but till then, he would continue his watch and fight petty crime wherever it emerged.

The night seemed slow as he navigated the rooftops. He spent the majority of his time in the northernmost borough of the City, the Narrows. He was always able to find some trace of criminal activity and tonight was no exception. As he made his way south over the residential district of Burnley, he heard the sudden clang and crash of trash cans. Bruce aimed his descent towards a nearby rooftop and disengaged the glider frame of his black cape. His boots landed lightly despite his immense weight. He dropped low onto his hands and knees, transferring the shock of impact. His cape closed around him as he stood tall and menacing in the darkness, making his way to the edge of the roof. Peering down into the alley below, he spotted his target. Behind a dumpster, a woman tried to muffle her cries as a man grasped her with his free hand.

"Shut up! I will blow your brains out!" he said as he hefted a large chrome plated handgun up to her temple. Bruce bared his teeth as he glared down at the man, taking his usual precautions. All was clear. He stepped off the roof and dropped down into the space between the two buildings. Bruce engaged the gliding frame to soften his fall then released it again moments before landing behind his target. "Whoa," the man exclaimed as he suddenly was alerted to a presence behind him. He managed to swing his heavy handgun halfway around but was instantly seized. Bruce's large black gloved hand grasped his lower arm. He enjoyed throwing a right cross into the man's face. The gun fell with a thud to the alley way ground. Careening further down the alley from the force of the punch, the man stumbled and tried to get away, screaming in terror as the black figure pounced on him. They crashed to the ground, Bruce on top as he rained blow after blow down on him. Had this piece of filth been merely a drug peddler or even a common mugger, Bruce would've gone easier on him. But this crook was a predator of the vilest kind, he needed to learn to be afraid. Bruce loomed over him, his demonic like expression accented by his menacing cowl hovered an inch over the battered, trembling man.

"You remember this night, Scum, the next time you decide to put your hands on anyone ever again. If you do, you won't be able to touch anything ever again, because I'll be watching you." The man whimpered, his bloodshot eyes wide with fright despite the heavy bruising of his face. Bruce threw down one final punch, and the man was out instantly. From a pouch on his utility belt, he grabbed a pair of flex cuffs. Rolling the man onto his stomach, he brought his hands behind his back and tightened each loop of the black plastic around each wrist. Bruce stood up after securing his prisoner then turned around. The woman huddled in a tight ball in the corner of the dumpster and brick building, her eyes wide with terror, mascara streaking from the stream of tears, stared at him as he stooped and reached for the ground then stood back up. He took slow steps forward, his black cape draped around his entire form like the shroud of a phantom. "Do you have a phone?" he asked in a soft, yet strong tone. Still frozen in silence, she barely managed to nod. "Call nine, one, one," Bruce instructed as he raised his arm over his head and fired his grapnel gun to the rooftop above.

"Wait," she croaked, finding her voice once again. "You're going to leave me here alone?" she inquired shrilly.

"Never," he said solidly. Bruce activated the winch sending him flying to the rooftop above. The woman's gaze followed him into the darkness watching him vanish into the abyss of shadows. From his perch overhead, he watched as she searched through her purse, found her cellphone and placed the call. In his hand, he held the discarded Desert Eagle. The large, chrome, 50 caliber handgun gleamed in the sparse light of the moon overhead. Not a single scratch or scuff was visible on the surface. Not only was this firearm grossly too much for the crook to handle, it was far above his price range. This wasn't the first time in recent outings that Bruce had come across amateur criminals with ill fitted weapons. The black market weapons trade was getting worse. Whomever sold it or distributed the handgun needed to be shut down. Using his PDA's camera function, he took a snapshot of the serial number engraved on left side, lower half of the slide. Moments later, red and blue lights flashed at the mouth of the alley way, now illuminated by the headlights of a GCPD squad car. Bruce ejected the magazine from the handgun and threw it aside then dismantled the Desert Eagle with practiced precision. After throwing each component in separate directions, Bruce turned away from the ledge of the rooftop, taking off away into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Rubbing at his temples, Commissioner Gillian Loeb sat in his chair, just taking the moment to inhale the scent of his morning coffee in the dark blue GCPD mug. The wracking knock on his office door caused his heavy eyes to open. Leaning in his chair to peer through the half open blinds of the long rectangle windows, he spotted a man in a sharp, dark blue suit. A fine leather briefcase hung in his hand at his side. His slick, dark hair gleamed in the lighting hanging from the department headquarters' ceiling. Loeb recognized the Assistant District Attorney and suddenly remembered being alerted to an early meeting.

"Come," Loeb called out loud. The ADA opened the door and stepped inside, careful to close the door before walking across to the desk set against the right side wall of the office.

"Commissioner," he greeted with a confident smile. Silently, Loeb indicated to the chair in front of his desk with a sullen frown on his face. As the ADA sat in the chair, he couldn't help but notice the resemblance of Loeb's expression with that of the portrait of the sad clown hanging on the wall behind him.

"What can I do for you, Counselor Reeves?" Loeb asked. Arthur Reeves propped his brown leather briefcase on his knees as he flipped open the latches and opened the top. From the mouth of leather, he produced a form completely filled out in crisp black ink on a sheet of white paper. Loeb was all too familiar with the form. "I have an outstanding arrest warrant here, authorized by the mayor personally," he said with professionally pristine diction. With a less than curious look, Loeb reached out for the warrant.

"Who for?"

"The Batman," Reeves said stiffly. Loeb's dark beady eyes snapped from the form up to the smug Assistant DA sitting across from him.

"On what grounds?" Loeb inquired.

"Well other than the fact he's a vigilante, he's a menace, prowling on innocent citizens of Gotham City." Loeb eyed him closely.

"Innocent?" Reeves gave a quick smirk.

"Such as the brutalization of Detective Arnold Flass, an outstanding police officer and civil servant," Reeves explained slyly. It was suddenly very clear to the Commissioner that the Counselor's words were carefully chosen, Reeves knew more than he led on. "And that's just the one case that's been publicized," he continued. There are countless more all lying crippled in the beds of hospitals city wide. He is dangerous and a serious threat to this city." Loeb set the warrant down on his desk and sat back in his chair.

"Solid case you have there, Counselor," he said. "The mayor authorized this?"

"He signed it this morning at an early breakfast meeting," Reeves smiled smugly.

"Momma Sandra's, on fifth street?" Loeb inquired.

"No, at the Pinnacle Café, wonderful brunch," Reeves replied. Loeb smirked back and for a moment stared at the counselor across from him. Caution was thrown to the wind it was time to get to the bottom of it all.

"Counselor, let's talk frank," he said seriously. "What's your interest in the Batman?"

"Frank, huh?" Reeves replied with a telling look in his eyes and a smile that grew smugger by the minute. "Very well. He's a hot button topic and so far, he's been untouchable. We don't even have a picture of him," he exclaimed. "So just imagine if he was apprehended, just how strong and capable the people to do so would appear. And with the election for DA next year, the man to prosecute the Batman would wipe the floor."

"So this is about you getting elected as DA," Loeb stated. Reeves' eyes narrowed venomously.

"If we are talking frank," he paused, restating the terms of the discussion with a sudden raise of his eyebrows. "You've prospered with Rainer as DA, Commissioner. Rainer and I see eye to eye on many subjects. Were I his successor, not much would change," he proposed. And I warn you, the same can't be said about Harvey Dent."

"The guy on the Sionis case," Loeb thought out loud. "I thought you were already dominating the polls?" Loeb said.

"I consider this as insurance," Reeves replied. Loeb looked back down at the warrant on his desk. It was clear that the two men were very much on the same page and so far, Loeb could see no down side.

"What do you need from me?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Bruce felt the fatigue close in around him as he stepped out into the secretary's lounge. Behind him the door closed as William Earle looked on to the youngest board member in the history of Wayne. The talk seemed longer to Bruce than it actually was yet it ended with a crisp handshake and a deceiving smile from the CEO. Bruce wasn't yet ready to leave the skyscraper in the heart of the Diamond District of Gotham City. Minutes later, Bruce stepped into the office of the department head of Research and Development for Wayne Enterprise. Lucius Fox glanced away from his computer screen with a curious look in his eyes.

"Mr. Wayne?" he inquired as he adjusted his frameless glasses.

"Mr. Fox," Bruce greeted with a grin as he walked into the office, far smaller and more cluttered than the luxury of Mr. Earle's office, eleven floors above.

"Well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Lucius inquired as he stood up from his chair.

"I was just meeting with Mr. Earle," Bruce said.

"I see. I'm afraid I can't offer you the same luxuries, except for this chair here," Lucius said with an indication to the plain chair set against the wall.

"That's fine, I won't be staying long," Bruce said with a wave. "I actually wanted to come down here and thank you again for the recent favor."

"Ah," Lucius grinned fondly. "I see you've put them to good use," he said. "Well anytime that I can assist the Batman," he added with a smirk. Bruce stared back. He knew it was only a matter of time before Fox made the connection but never knew exactly what would happen from there. Lucius laughed as he read Bruce's mind. "Don't worry, Mr. Wayne. You aren't the only one that knows the value of discretion."

Fox was a child in a candy shop on Christmas day. Deep in the dark caves below the grounds of Wayne Manor, there was far more for him to see than his last visit four months ago. The steel tables set against the cave wall displayed various sets of generic street clothes. One table even displayed the black folded old-world shinobi shozoku. He only briefly glanced over the uniform of an assassin of the shadows as he was immediately attracted to the left most tables. Rows of small, metal, bat-shaped shurikens, small pellets filled with a chemical mixture to ignite voluminous, instant smoke and of course, the creatively designed grapnel gun drew him to the table with wondrously curious eyes.

"Extraordinary, Bruce," he said as he brought the 'T' shaped grapnel gun up for a closer look.

"Thought you'd like a personal tour," Bruce said. He stood back near the metal walkway to the lift system of the cave. Fox laid the grapnel gun gently back on the table as his eyes were instantly attracted to the ominous, black figure standing on display in the far corner. Fox approached the black nomex, Kevlar suit as he adjusted his frameless glasses. He brushed his hand over the roughly woven texture of the stiff, yet flexible material. He looked even closer to the scuffed, patchwork on the chest and rubbed his chin. A subtle black patch of oval lay over a damaged surface of the suit, he could feel the divots under his fingers. "Glad to see the Kevlar holds up," he said. "How's your chest healing?" he inquired glancing back over his shoulder. Bruce stood with his arms crossed over his grey suit jacket.

"Still a bit tender. You can thank Sionis for that," he said. Lucius chuckled as he turned back to the displayed suit.

"Good to know you take your mortality seriously," he muttered. "So," he sighed as he turned to his right and looked upon the lifeless, computer system set in the opposite corner of the landing. "The computer then?"

"I'm working on something and need the advanced database linking software operational," Bruce explained.

"What is it you're working on?" Lucius inquired enthusiastically. Bruce could see in the man's gentle, brown eyes that he was excited, that was good, it meant he was committed, but Bruce still had his concerns.

"Lucius, don't take this personally, but the less you know, the better." Lucius hid his disappointment well.

"Fair enough," he said solemnly. "I'll have it up and running in a day. Then I'll see to some other things for you," he added with a smile and wink. Bruce smiled back. Fox was a good ally and at moments like this, the cave didn't seem so cold and heartless.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Captain James Gordon cleared his throat and instantly the rabble in the room quieted down. He stood at the podium before the rows of chairs, overlooking the ocean of deep blue, uniformed police officers. His expression was stern. He learned early on in his career in the Gotham City Police Department that these officers in the First Precinct required a firm hand. Gordon lost his sense of humor long ago.

"Approximately three months ago, the vigilante called 'the Batman' was first spotted," he announced with a quick glance to a police officer sitting in the front left corner of the assembly. Gerard Stevens glanced back, giving a slow deep breath. Officer Stan Merkel, the officer sitting to his right was the only one in the room that noticed. "That same night, he assaulted and apprehended the criminal Salvatore Maroni, and eleven others associated with both Carmine Falcone and Roman Sionis, A.K.A. Black Mask. Since then there have been exactly three hundred sixty-four counts of assault and battery attributed to the Batman in Gotham City, all of which targeted on alleged criminals with the exception of five GCPD personnel." Seated against the wall of the room, a large, bald man glared at Gordon. A stitches scar sliced across his forehead. His left hand was secured in a cumbersome cast with his right still slung against his chest. "I've asked Detective Flass, a firsthand witness of the perp to provide us with a description, Detective," Gordon waved the focus over to the grumpy faced man.

"It was big, and all black," he added. An officer seated in the front row snorted, suppressing his chuckles behind his hand. Flass bared his teeth, revealing a missing upper tooth. "The thing aint human!" he exclaimed. "I shot it with my sidearm but the bullet passed right through it. It punched straight through the windshield and threw to the ground with one hand! It aint human!" The room of police officers were all now in hysterics, all except for the detective standing in the doorway in the far back. He grinded his teeth on a toothpick as he listened in, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his wrinkled slacks, his short sleeved shirt one size too large was kept in the same, sloppy manner. Harvey Bullock didn't find this very amusing.

"Settle down, everyone," Gordon ordered with the same lack of amusement. "Now we have been authorized by Mayor Garcia to initiate a full Department wide man hunt on the Batman, which is why I've requested the presence of the other Precinct Captains. In the far back of the room, five other officers stood with attentive faces. Each were the captains and heads of each precinct established in each borough of Gotham City. In the far right corner, another man listened in. He wasn't a police officer but Gordon recognized Counselor Arthur Reeves from his campaign adds. The counselor was overly confident, something that Gordon, never quite trusted. What exactly the Assistant District Attorney had to gain, Gordon wasn't quite sure, but regardless his feelings, he had a job to do. "Now, let's go over some details about the perp's methods and other patterns we've learned."

Opening the door to his small office, Gordon stepped inside, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

"So, how'd it go?" Jim opened his eyes to find seventeen year old daughter seated behind his desk, her eyes fixed on the screen of his computer, most likely focused on a video game.

"Well I didn't have to arrest anybody," he sighed as he pulled off his jacket.

"Super," she droned sarcastically. Jim gave her a reproachful look.

"Alright that's it," he sighed and placed his hands on his waist. "You've been moping about this past week, what's up?" Barbara looked away from the screen then folded her arms as she leaned back in his chair with a frown on her young, defiant face.

"I still think its wrong," she protested. Jim groaned as he rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Barbara, we've been over this."

"He took out Maroni, brought down Black Mask and even pushed out Falcone!" she exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down," Gordon pleaded with alarm in his eyes. "None of that has been proven."

"Yeah right!" she snorted. "Who else did it? Sure as heck wasn't Flass or Merkel or you." Gordon sighed again. Her stubbornness was his own fault, it was one of the many traits of his that she inherited.

"I think getting out of Gotham will actually do you some good," he grumbled. "You talk with your Mom yet?" he inquired.

"Yeah," Barbara replied as she sat upright and returned her attention to the computer screen. "She's picking me up at the airport tomorrow."

"Good," Jim said. "I'm sure you and her will have a wonderful Mother's Day weekend together," he said with a forced smile.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Bruce, lunchtime!" Her voice was almost melodic and no matter how far out on the grounds of Wayne Manor he ventured, he always seemed to hear her. He took off faster than a bullet, printing across the back lawn. The vast mansion set on the hill bathed in the summer sun, the red bricks glowed a warm orange in the peaceful, radiant light. Up the short stone steps, standing in the open doorway of the glass back doors, she stood watching as she approached. She was elegant and above all, happy. She always seemed like she was happy, as if all was right in her life. Her long brunette hair was brushed and held out of her soft, pale face by a headband, the same sky blue color as her sun dress. As her five year old son approached the paved patio set like a peninsula in an ocean of green grass, his foot caught on the edge. Martha watched it happen in slow motion, already she knew what was coming next, it was her Mother's intuition. Bruce flopped forward crashing to a sudden stop as he landed on his stomach. Immediately Bruce sat up, holding his knee and grimacing in pain.

"Ow, ow, ow!" he exclaimed with his eyes squeezed tight to hold back the tears leaking through.

"Bruce, are you alright?" she asked with controlled worry in her sweet voice. Already at his side, she knelt down on the patio in her clean, dress. Her gentle hands rested on his shoulders as she looked down at the bleeding gash on his left knee. "Let me look at it," she said. "Ow, that looks like that hurts," she said sympathetically. Bruce sniffed up his running nose as he whimpered and nodded. "Aww, lets get that cleaned and bandaged up," she said. Lifting him into her arms, she carried her sobbing son inside. She spoke soothingly into his ear as she stroked his hair and continued down the vast halls of Wayne Manor. They went she carried him down to the kitchen, backing into the mahogany swinging door.

"Ma'am?" a mustached man wearing black slacks and a vest and tie to match asked. "Is there anything I can assist with?"

"No, no Alfred, thank you," Martha smiled at the butler. "Bruce here just had a nasty trip is all. I've got it." She set Bruce down on the counter then ducked into a cupboard, retrieving a plastic white case with a cross of red. Tenderly and while continuing to sooth him with her words, she cleaned the gash on his knee, applied a sanitizing gel then gently placed a white Band-Aid over the red wound on his knee. "There," she said smiling at him. She leaned down and kissed the bandage softly, leaving a red smear from her lipstick. "All better," she said as she rubbed the smear off of the bandage. Bruce's tears ceased and a smile spread on his young face.

"Love you, Mommy," he said. Their foreheads touched as she smiled back at him.

"I love you too," she replied. The young boy laughed happily as she tapped his nose.

"Wonderful bedside manner, Ma'am," Alfred said with a grin.

"Four years as a registered nurse, Alfred," she remarked. "It's like riding a bike." Alfred turned towards the young mother the suddenly frowned.

"Oh, Mrs. Wayne, you have blood on your dress," he said regretfully. Martha looked down to find the smear of blood on her abdomen, a vivid, dark red splotch on the sky blue fabric. Even as a six year old, Bruce recognized just how wrong this image was.

BANG!

BANG!

The gunshots cracked in the night. A man and a woman lay side by side in puddles of their own blood, a splotch of fresh maroon overflowing in the wound in her abdomen. She breathed heavily, deep in shock, her blood flowing and spilling over at an uncontrollable rate. Two minutes later, she was gone and her young eight year old son was left alone kneeling in the alley over the bodies of his parents.

His eyes still covered by the black shades, Bruce opened them, looking down at the large sculpted gravestone. The stone was a single base of sandstone at the foot of two intricately designed markers. The peaks of the headstones were linked together by an archway capped by a stone crucifix. A single red rose was lain at the foot of the headstone to the right.

MARTHA KANE WAYNE, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. A small black and white picture was set in the stone above her name. Bruce set his hand on the warm sand stone.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom," he whispered. Bruce turned away, tugging the collar of his black trench coat tight around his neck to fight a chill. Whether the cold breeze was an act of nature or a figment of his imagination, a product of his cold outlook, he couldn't be sure. Bruce walked down the paved walkways through the freshly mowed lawn, winding down the hilltop where the Wayne gravesite was located in the Gotham Cemetery on the edge of the Palisades. Bruce approached the tall, spiked iron, gate encircling the cemetery grounds. He walked through the archway and strode down the sidewalk with his hands in his pants pocket. Three cars were parked along off the side of the road along the sidewalk. Bruce held his keys, aiming the electronic lock remote at the silver Jaguar parked in the back of the three. Pressing the button, his sleek silver car beeped as the lights flashed.

"Oh, its about time you show up!" a woman's voice called out. Bruce looked up from the sidewalk, his gaze instantly drawn to her slim, smooth legs, up to her fine, subtly rounded hips. Her hands were set indignantly on them from over her brown lengthy, leather coat. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting here?" Bruce stopped in his tracks, caught completely by surprise by the sudden attack.

"I'm sorry, what seems to be the problem, Ma'am?" he inquired warmly.

"My car is trapped by you and this other jerk!" she shot back pointing to a black Cadillac and his silver Jaguar. Parked set tightly between them both was a cherry red, 1972 Mustang Convertible. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck with a wince.

"Oh, I'm sorry to inconvenience you," he said. "Here, I'll move it."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed. Bruce climbed into his Jaguar and fired the engine, letting it roar before shifting to reverse and pulling back along the sidewalk. The woman wasted no time tossing her purse into the passenger seat, approaching her Mustang and sitting down in its old, leather interior. Bruce climbed back out of his car, leaving the engine running. Standing outside, he heard the struggle of her car's engine as the ignition whined but refused to turn over. Tossing her head back, she muttered to the sky.

"Sounds like you need a jump," Bruce said. The woman opened her eyes to find him looking at her with a grin on his chiseled face. At any other time, she'd find him rather charming. She was absolutely beautiful. Bruce found it hard not to look at her. Her emerald green eyes clashed so elegantly with her wavy, dark red hair bound back by a bandana. All she could do was chuckle in disbelief as she nodded.

Bruce pulled his Jaguar up beside her Mustang then climbed back out and dug through the trunk for jumper cables. Already the hoods were flipped open to both cars as Bruce approached and clamped each end of the jumper cables. "Have somewhere you need to be?" he asked.

"Not necessarily," she replied. "Its just no fun standing around a graveyard for ten straight minutes." She looked up at Bruce with an apologetic smile. "Sorry I went off on you like that."

"No harm done," Bruce said as he secured the final clamp. "Go ahead and start her up," he said. She climbed back into her car and mumbled a prayer as her fingers turned the key in the ignition. The ignition whined again then finally prevailed as the engine turned over and the Mustang roared to life.

"Oh thank heavens," she sighed. Bruce removed the jumper cables then closed both of the cars' hoods. She beamed up at him gratefully as he approached the side of her car, removing his black shades from his eyes. "Good lord!" she exclaimed placing her hand over her mouth to hide her shock. "Bruce Wayne just gave me a jump," she giggled.

"Well now that you know my name," Bruce said, leaving his words aloft freely along with his firm hand. She placed her delicate hand in his.

"Andrea Beaumont. My friends call me Andy."

"A pleasure, Andy," Bruce said smoothly. "We should meet again in a warmer setting," he suggested.

"Hmm, haven't gone out with any billionaires in a while," she mused with thought. "What the heck, could be fun." Reaching into her purse set in the passenger's seat, she retrieved a pen and a stick of gum. Bruce watched in amusement as she unfolded the stick of blue gum, tossed it in her mouth then scribbled ten digits on the wrapped. "Don't lose that," she said as she handed it to Bruce. She changed gears then pulled free of the parking spot as Bruce watched her drive away down the road. He lingered there, still able to see the silhouette of her car in the distance. _Okay, she's gone, you can stop pretending,_ he told himself. He tried to wipe the smile clean from his face but as he looked on down the road, the muscles of his face wouldn't relax. The smile was real, the warm feeling inside was real.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Bowery was a thriving market square on the coastline of Gotham Harbor. Not quite the brilliance of the Diamond District in the heart of the city, the west Gotham borough glowed in the night with neon billboards and the lights in the thousands of open windows of various malls, department stores and above all, the finest dining the city had to boast for. It was the perfect mockery of civilization that somewhere in its dark corners, it saw the activity of even Gotham's festering black market. Not every establishment located within the bounds of the Bowery was alive with prosperity. The large vacated building was once a supercenter grocery outlet. For years it sat dormant, decaying with age. Homeless found it for shelter among other unsavory uses, which explained the stale smell. But the building was vacant tonight. Cars were parked outside, not including the large black van parked inside through the large garage like door of the building's entrance. Four shop lights were set up around the back of the van, providing a clear view for the gathering of men all standing about, watching as the dealer displayed the AK-12 assault rifle in his hands.

"Latest thing from Russia, my friends," he grinned. "Shoots 7.62s, a heavier round than your standard, cop wielding M4. This puppy is slick, got a collapsible and foldable stock and sight and grip mounts, completely modifiable for all your needs. Accessories not included," he added smugly. "This my boys is a rare deal available only tonight, right here, right now."

"So what, it's a Mother's Day sale?" a man from the attending group mocked.

"Yeah, a sale for some sweet hardware any mother would be proud of," the dealer said smoothly. The group sniggered. "So we got a deal, or what?" The men all exchanged glances, nodding with pleased looks on their faces. "You boys are making a very good choice, the dealer said as he tossed the AK-12 to a man in the crowd. "Ricky Leblanc guarantees it," he said with a slight bow. Suddenly four encircling flood lights died with a snap as power to the entire building was sapped away.

"What the?" one of the men exclaimed. A crash sounded from atop the van, drawing the attention of every man in the room. Their hearts raced and eyes widened in terror as a shadow with two long, sharp bladelike ears glared back at them.

"Aw crap it's the Bat!" a deep voiced man shouted, sounding like nothing more than a scared little boy.

"No way Man, I'm out!" Another exclaimed as he turned away and ran to the nearest door. Two men, armed with stubby yet loud CBJ-MSs. The submachine guns rattled in the thugs' hands as they fired at the roof of the van not caring about the punctures of the bullets in the interior. Bruce dove to his right, rolling to his feet as he landed on the floor with two batarangs already drawn from the dispensers on his utility belt. He cast them simultaneously, watching each blade stick into the henchman's hands. Like roaches, the crowd had scattered as Bruce dealt incapacitating blows to the two gunmen. Ricky Leblanc grumbled hysterically as he ran to the driver's door of the van. Bruce dug through his belt again drawing, a device from one of his pouches. He grasped one of the two heavy ping-pong pall sized weights and pulled the other, drawing out a thin chord from a reel inside the ball. Still grasping one of the weighted balls, he swung the other over his head before casting it at the fleeing weapons dealer. The bola trap wrapped securely around the dealer's legs. He stumbled forward before crashing face first on the hard floor of the building. Slowly, Bruce made his way to where Leblanc struggled and tried to pry the chords free from his legs. Delirious with fear, Leblanc yelped as he saw the demonic figure approach then tried to crawl away on his stomach like a worm.

"Let's talk," Bruce growled as he grabbed Leblanc by the back of his leather jacket. "You will answer my questions or learn what it feels like to have your leg bend the wrong way," he threatened with grit teeth.

"Okay, man, whatever you want!" Leblanc screamed. Bruce grabbed the dealer with both hands by the collar and lifted him off the ground. Leblanc's bound legs kicked and swung wildly with panic.

"Who do you work for?" Bruce demanded furiously.

"No one, man," Leblanc stammered. "I'm my own boss." Bruce sent a punch into the dealer's abdomen.

"You're just a gunrunner, hired trash to push weapons for the man in charge. Now lie to me again, I dare you," Bruce growled with bared teeth.

"Okay, okay," he wheezed. "Some guy, not from around here, I don't know his name." Bruce growled in his throat as he slammed Leblanc to the ground on his back. The dealer groaned, dazed from the impact of his head on the floor. Bruce lifted him off the ground, looming over him menacingly.

"A name, now!" he demanded.

"Oh come on, man," Leblanc pleaded. "He'll kill me dead if I talk."

"I'm here, he isn't and I'm worse," Bruce threatened. Leblanc wouldn't give in. Holding him down with one hand at his throat, Bruce grasped the dealer's ankle with his free hand as he stood on his knee cap. Slowly he pulled the ankle upward with the knee still braced tightly to the floor. Leblanc felt the agonizing strain and howled in pain. With only a mere centimeter more, the leg would snap.

"Penguin!" he bellowed. "He calls himself the Penguin!" Bruce halted, releasing the leg. "I swear man, I aint lying!" Suddenly a voice spoke in Bruce's ear. From the transceiver installed in his cowl, the proper, gently refined voice of his loyal butler resonated in his ear.

"Sir, something's happened," he reported. Bruce nearly missed the voice, unused to having the direct contact with Alfred via the communication uplink of the computer back in the cave. With Leblanc still pinned to the floor, Bruce quickly incapacitated him before standing back in the silence of the shadows.

"What is it, Alfred?" he whispered.

"It sounds like, like a bomb, Sir. I'll patch the police band to your com link," Alfred reported. "Just have to find the right switch," he muttered out loud. A moment later and a radio transmission burst in his ear. Bruce flinched as he reached to his belt and adjusted the audio output level controls. There were still some kinks to work out with the new system.

"-on two thirty-seventh and fifth street. I repeat, we have a ten-thirty-three on two thirty-seventh and fifth street. Location verified as Mama Sandra's restaurant." Bruce fired his grapnel to the ceiling, launching up to the open broken skylight where he had entered. Bruce climbed out onto the roof then froze where he stood. Up the street, nearly ten blocks away, a hot orange glow pulsated, spewing a vast billowing column of black smoke into the night sky.

Every channel was bordered with a 'BREAKING NEWS' ticker and the image of a towering building surrounded by other large structures emblazoned with neon signs and giant billboards. The tower's roof was in ruins and engulfed in a crown of flame, belching plumes of black smoke.

"What a tragedy," Alfred sighed. "All those people. Most likely mothers and fathers out celebrating for Mother's Day," he noted with a grief laden tone. Bruce sat in the large black chair set behind the three giant screens of the new computer. Over the rushing of the waterfall, the cave echoed with the voices of newscasters, narrating the only few limited details they had on the shocking attack. According to them, it seemed unanimous; there was no sign of a threat, no cause or purpose but there was one detail the reporters foolishly overlooked.

"A bombing on a restaurant named Mama Sandra's on Mother's Day," he stated out loud, resting his elbow on the armrest as he rubbed his square jaw. There was more to this attack but only time would tell.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The entire city was baffled, stumbling blindly in the dark over the tragic attack on one of Gotham's more prestigious Italian restaurants. As investigations went underway, more details cropped up from the ruined ashes of the penthouse restaurant, yet nothing to point in the direction of the one responsible. For nights, Bruce remained vigilant, keeping his eyes open and ears to the ground. A feeling had set in his stomach, a churning cold feeling that told him this was just the beginning. It was far too well coordinated, congruently designed to be a single random attack as most investigators and news reporters were claiming. Then there was still this 'Penguin.'

Weeks past and Bruce was in agony with how little progress he made over his new lead. Yet still, the black market expanded without him. Whoever this Penguin was, he was gaining ground and fast. It was bound to happen. With the two major weapons dealers jailed and muscled out of Gotham, someone was bound to move in and absorb what was left open for the taking.

Bruce would just have to be patient. The computer in the cave, though running, was still not at full capacity. All manner of local and national databases were at his disposal, but international, such as Interpol databases were still far too risky. As Lucius Fox had explained, the anti-tracing firewall security system was enough to protect on a national scale but insufficient internationally. It was merely a matter of patience as Fox programed a truly invulnerable firewall. Until then, Bruce would have to resort to old fashioned street detective work.

If it weren't for his brief recesses away from the cape and cowl and outside of the cave as Bruce Wayne, Bruce felt as if he'd lose his mind, let alone his temper. Bruce was running on exactly three hours of sleep yet just to be himself while not being the Batman was just what he needed.

"Come on Harvey, you can do better than that," he mocked with a smirk as he stood over the bench. Harvey Dent was on his back, his pectorals straining and toned biceps bulging as he pushed the hundred-twenty pound laden, metal bar to finish the set. A vein in his forehead popped as he let out a mighty growl and hefted the weight straight over his chest. "There you go," Bruce cheered on as he guided the bar onto the support arms at the head of the bench. The weights rested with a hard, metal clang as Harvey breathed heavily.

"Towel," he request wearily with an outstretched hand. Bruce threw the white rag and Harvey caught it, dabbing at his forehead. "I don't know how you do it, Bruce," he said.

"Well all those pretty numbers you see clinging to my arms at your campaign rallies are good motivation," Bruce smirked. Harvey laughed as the two men walked through the rows of weight lifting equipment in the private health club. It was a routine the two men who've come to call each other 'friend' enjoyed to take part in once a week. Stepping through double doors, they entered a the upper ring level of a gymnasium chamber. The indoor track was mostly empty. The two men took no hesitation, throwing their towels and water bottles in a corner of the pit stop entrance before taking off side by side in a leisurely paced run.

"Speaking of campaign rallies, your idea of my appearance at the fundraiser for the families of the bombing victims was a doozy," Harvey said between breathes.

"People are starting to see that you really care, Harvey, that's important. You're gaining their trust," Bruce said sincerely. He could go on running and continuing a conversation for quite a while but deceptively threw in a pant here and there in his sentences.

"Yeah, but as long as Reeves keeps Bat-bashing, he's making friends with the people that really matter. Majority votes don't count for much in a corrupt city," Harvey added bitterly. Bruce refrained from frowning as the two rounded in for their third lap. "I don't want to talk about this now," he spat grumpily. "I come here to escape before I have to go back into that mess," he added with a chuckle. Harvey glanced up at the analog clock glowing on the wall above the track.

"Crap," he exclaimed. "Which reminds me, I have a consultation meeting this morning." Harvey doubled back then turned back around. "Almost forgot," he called out. "Gilda wants to have you over for dinner tomorrow." Bruce paused, remaining to jog in place on the track.

"Tomorrow? You mean Memorial Day?" he inquired.

"You been invited to any big shot barbeques?" Harvey chuckled.

"Probably, but all of them will be dull and boring. What time?" Bruce asked with a grin.

"Let's say six thirty."

"Let's say six," Bruce suggested.

"Alright, six then," Harvey chuckled. The two waved goodbye as Harvey darted for the pit stop along the side of the track and Bruce continued his run.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Both men were standing, a sure sign there was shouting within the sound proofed office of the Commissioner's office. The blinds over the windows were still down, offering only the faintest of silhouettes.

"Its been a month, Gordon! No more wasting time, I want him brought in, or it's your badge!" Jim wrenched the door open, squeezing his temper through his solid grip on the door knob. He closed the office door behind him. As he turned back around, he found another man leaning against the railing of the loft over the bullpen in wait. His arms were crossed as he fixed Gordon harshly and chewed on a toothpick.

"Something I can help you with, Detective Bullock?" Jim inquired hotly.

"I want off the Mama Sandra's case," Bullock demanded.

"Is that right?" Gordon grumbled.

"I want Batman," Bullock said with a glower.

"Really," Jim said perturbed. "And do you have anything worthwhile to contribute to that, Detective?" he burst, his face turning redder than his hair. Bullock remained still, glowering at Gordon from under the brim of his black fedora. Gordon huffed as he strode past Bullock and made his way to the descending staircase. He paused at the first step and sighed, cooling his temper.

"You're a good detective, Bullock, you get results," he said. He looked over his shoulder back at the hefty man leaning against the railing. "Just make sure that you're doing your job for the right reasons, and not to impress the wrong people." Bullock snarled as Gordon descended the staircase back into the bullpen of police headquarters.

The plates were empty with only the smear of steak sauce and crumbs of food left from a much enjoyed meal. In the homey comfort of the warmly lit dining room, the three talked and laughed long after the meals were eaten. A half empty bottle of wine was set in the center of the dinner table, covered by a floral dinner table. Gilda Dent balanced a wine glass in her hand as she spoke with her husband seated beside her, shaking his head shyly, hiding his smile behind his mouth.

"Here was this guy with dreams of standing before some of the shrewdest people around to argue complicated cases, bumbling over his words as he asked me to dance in front of a group of my friends," she laughed.

"Those sorority girls were shrewder than any jury I've ever faced," Harvey grinned defensively.

"I can second that," Bruce lied as he laughed and Gilda shrugged in agreement.

"Besides," Harvey said as he looked over at his wife. "I won in the end." Gilda blushed as they exchanged an endearing look. Bruce smiled as he watched on, his gaze drifting to his watch.

"Ten past ten," he read out loud. "I'm sorry you two, but I have to be going now," he said with an apologetic tone as he stood from the table. Harvey stood up as well.

"Early meeting in the morning?" he inquired mockingly.

"You know, Bruce," Gilda said. "The invitation could've been a 'plus one," she said with a sly smile. "What happened to that Olympic swimmer you had at the last rally?" she inquired as she brought her glass to her mischievous lips.

"Katrina?" Bruce inquired. "Just didn't pan out," he replied casually.

"And another one bites the dust," Harvey mumbled as he and Gilda led Bruce to the front door a mere four paces from the dining room, through the living room. Bruce glanced his way with a sarcastic glare.

"We still set for Racquet Ball next Tuesday?" he inquired, eager to change the subject as they reached the door.

"Rematch, next Tuesday," Harvey replied, firing a competitive look in his eye as he pointed his finger aggressively.

"You got it," Bruce grinned then turned to Gilda.

"Gilda, thank you for a lovely evening." He opened the door as she approached for a quick hug.

"Anytime, Bruce."

"Likewise," Bruce bid as he stepped out into the warm night. The door to the house closed and the home of the Dent family seemed to fall back in place, side by side the row of doors and addresses on the neighborhood block on the edge of Burnley. Bruce approached his car, the sleek silver Jaguar parked along the curb in the glow of a streetlight. The night was quiet, yet Bruce out of habit, remained ever vigilant as he climbed into the driver's seat. He was completely awake and alert, ready to stop back at Wayne Manor to suit up for the night. He'd turned down Gilda's offer for a drink of wine, since he was driving himself. Neither she or Harvey thought any more of it.

"That Bruce," Gilda chuckled out loud as she and Harvey gathered the dishes from the table. "What is this, four? Four different women in one month?" she said.

"What?" Harvey frowned.

"I mean what is it, he just looses track of their number or something?" she suggested sarcastically.

"Bruce gets women thrown at him," Harvey chuckled as he carried his pile of dishes into the kitchen.

"Well, what's he looking for exactly?" she inquired with piqued curiosity.

"Oh how should I know," Harvey scoffed.

"Well he's your friend, Harv," she retorted. "What do you and he talk about every week at the health club?"

"Not that," Harvey laughed. Unsatisfied, Gilda stepped over to the telephone hooked on a base on the kitchen wall. A small, leather bound book rested on the counter beside it. She opened it as Harvey carefully placed the dishes into the sink. "Gilda, what are you doing?" he inquired uneasily.

"Looking through my contacts book," she replied. Harvey froze and glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh no," he mumbled.

"Here!" she exclaimed as she spun around and held out the book for Harvey to see. "She's perfect." Harvey scrutinized the name in the contact book.

"What makes you think she's perfect?" he argued.

"Opposites attract," Gilda suggested with a shrug. Harvey frowned, not convinced even with Gilda's mischievous smile.

"Bruce is a good guy but beneath the money and good looks, he's pretty bland," she explained almost apologetically. "He needs a little excitement in his life."

Driving down the street, Bruce came across few cars on the road as he drove along the southern most boundary of Burnley. The glowing metropolitan market square of the Bowery still remained as alive as ever, even after the bombing of Mama Sandra's. Bruce loosened his tie with one hand on the steering wheel.

"Call Alfred," he ordered out loud. His cell phone, docked on the hands free clip on the dashboard beeped in compliance. The call dialed before Alfred's voice replied.

"Yes, Master Bruce?" he inquired.

"Bit of a late start tonight, Alfred," Bruce said. "Prepare the cave for my arrival."

"Very well, Sir," Alfred answered. "Did you enjoy your Memorial Day dinner with the Dents?" he inquired. Bruce opened his mouth but his voice stuck in his throat. Far off to his left, a corner of the Bowery was engulfed in a ball of flame. The explosion shattered the quiet within the car. Bruce slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt. He heard Alfred calling out loud on the speaker as he opened his car door and stepped out onto the street looking out across the roadway, petrified by the shock of a second attack.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Strolling up to the front door of the bank, she had a pleasant smile on her face. Making her way directly to the front desk to the awaiting teller, eyes drifted her way, how could they not. Her form was fit, athletic and rounded in all the right places yet it was her hair that briefly stole their attention. Her feathered hair was stark white, in contrast with her black trench coat tied about her waist. She wasn't at the teller's for long, making a simple transfer of funds, yet still, lingering eyes of the other customers and bank employees still found their way back to her, including the lone security guard.

"Is that all for you Ma'am?" the generous voiced teller asked. The woman checked her watch around her slim wrist.

"Oh shoot, I'm running late," she said in dismay, still retaining her flirtatious smile. With a flutter of her fingers, she waved goodbye and made her way back to the door. As she reached the doorway, she opened her purse and fumbled for something inside. With a simple toss over her head, the plain, white bag fell to the floor of the bank. All eyes were wide and open, now focused curiously on the abandoned purse. Five black, palm sized cylinders rolled from the mouth of the purse across the floor. Screams were instantly blotted out by five consecutive, concussive explosions. The flashes filled the room with bright white light and the sound shattered the eardrums of everyone in the room. The front doors burst open and two hefty figured men fanned on the flanks of the woman, her trench coat limp on the floor at the feet of her white shoes, matching her all white vinyl suit. Slung across her shoulder, she carried a VZ 61 Scorpion. The men at her sides were identically dressed, both in dark blue overalls. Their mandibles were covered by bandanas and heads adorned with flat caps, both alternating between the colors of yellow and red. In their meaty hands, they hefted black steel AK-12s. The woman in white skipped across the floor, past the dazed group of customers as she scooped white bag from the floor.

"Fill'er up, handsome," she demanded, tossing the bag into the teller's arms with a smirk and point of her gun. Frantically, the teller opened the registers and piled loose bills into the bag. The two men in overalls ushered the blind, dazed customers into the center of the bank. Approaching the security guard, the robber with a red hat and yellow bandana whacked him in the back with the butt of his rifle. The robber with a yellow hat and red bandana threw a large black bag down in front of the crowd.

"Fill it," he ordered with a grim voice. The woman in white fired her Scorpion above the teller's head.

"Hurry up, no time to dawdle," she said. Looming over the huddled group of customers, the robber with the yellow hat and red scarf jabbed the muzzled of his AK-12.

"Let's go hurry up!" he barked. The second robber rounded behind him, vigilantly watching the room with his back to the large side window, completely unaware of the shadow soaring closer and closer. The glass shattered and the robber wheeled around before feeling a pair of boots ram into his chest. The robber in the yellow hat spun round to find a black, demonic figure low on his hands and knees, ready to pounce. His finger squeezed the trigger of the AK-12, firing a stream of bullets. Bruce glowered behind his cowl as he rolled aside then pounced tackling the robber to the ground. The robber with the red hat shook his head clear and rose to his feet, grabbing his own AK-12. Bruce dealt another blow to the robber before leaping aside to avoid the second hail of automatic fire. The crowd of suddenly alert customers cried out as they ducked low to the floor to avoid the lethal rain of bullets now coming from the woman in white as well. Bruce bared his teeth, drawing a batarang from one of the dispensers and casting it. The blade stuck into the robber's shoulder. He yelped in pain, dropping his AK-12 to the floor with a clatter. From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw a glint of metal just in time. He stepped back allowing the star-shaped shuriken to sail just past his chest then stick in the wall. Bruce looked to his right, baffled by what he saw emerge from a dimly lit corner.

A slim figured woman dressed in a deep green shinobi shozoku stood fast and low. The bottom half of her face was covered by a green mask, her thin, eastern eyes squinted intensely as she beckoned to Bruce challengingly. Bruce heard from behind him the sounds of the two heavy set robbers gathering the bag full of money and scramble out the door. The woman in white followed close behind with the bag from the teller now slung over her shoulders. Car tires screeched as doors slammed shut and the vehicle sped away.

Bruce reached into his belt, collecting three small marble sized capsules then threw them to the ground. Bruce knew without a doubt that the expanding radius of smoke would have no effect on the ninja. She pounced through the shroud with twin Sais drawn in hand. Bruce dodged as she lunged with the spike-like blades as her fists. He was on the defensive, drawing upon his training from the furthest reaches of Asia, the point of origin of his opponent. With careful precision he redirected her strikes away from his vital zones with the thin scalloped hooks adorned on the lower arms of his Kevlar suit. As she lunged again, he found an in. He struck her throat with the flat of his open hand then thrust his palm at her chest, knocking her to the ground. Flat on her back, she sprang back, rolling to her feet but Bruce was already gone. She was merely a distraction, a well thought out addition to the roster of this odd gang.

Already around the corner of the bank, he sprinted into the shadows of the alley. Seconds later, a single headlight beam shone through. The rumble of the engine intensified as he gunned the accelerator of the MV Augusta F4, the sleek black sports bike erupted from the darkness onto the street and sped down the road.

All Bruce had was the make and model and the general direction of the bank robbers' car. He had identified the car as he swung in through the window from across the road and discerned its west bound escape route merely by the direction of the engine's fade. He gunned the accelerator, leaning in low against the body of the sleek black motorcycle. His cape fluttered freely behind him as he swerved in and out of traffic. As he sped through the eastern end of Burnley, he spotted the car. The dark green Sudan recklessly sped north, swerving to avoid near collisions with panicked drivers. Bruce tried to close the gap between them but continuously had to duck and weave in the wake of panic and hysteria the robber's left behind.

Up ahead, Flagstone Bridge glowed in the night, stretching across Gotham River, the sliver of water dividing the rest of the city from the majority of the dilapidated district of the Narrows. Draped along the trusses of the bridge were giant banners of Red, White and Blue with a giant Old Glory honorably hung from the tallest, support in the center. At nearly ten at night, only a hand full of drivers were on the bridge, Bruce reasoned he could catch them then. From overhead, a giant spotlight searched the road just on the tail of the Sudan. Bruce looked up, spotting the red strobe of the GCPD helicopter. He had little to no time before a detachment of squad cars would join the chase.

Feet from the entrance to Flagstone Bridge, an explosion rocked erupted from below. No one saw the flash below but the smoke engulfed all around. The rusted girders below the deck screeched with immense tension before giving way, snapping in half like twigs and raining into the river below. The entire deck of the bridge shook uncontrollably as the roadway at the southern end collapsed completely, crashing into the shallow water below. Car tires screeched as their drivers slammed on the brakes, swerving and crashing uncontrollably to avoid toppling over the edge and into the wreckage below. Approaching the junction of merging lanes on the road, Bruce leaned hard on his side, skidding to a stop before righting himself on the saddle of the bike. Overhead, the police helicopter's spotlight fixed on the sedan, now trapped by the wreckages of Gotham's late traffic and the crumbling end of the road over the gorge of twisted metal and shattered concrete. In that moment, Bruce nearly forgot about the impending arrival of Gotham Police as he stood and stared at the chaos.

Alfred was quiet, patiently waiting as he stood solemnly watching from behind with the black cape neatly folded and utility belt draped over the shoulder of his dark sweater. The cave was cold, despite the growing heat of June's early summer. On the large screen of the complex computer system set in the corner of the second landing the news broadcast was on mute. From the view of a helicopter, the crumpled, destroyed mass of ruin clogged the river.

"First thing's first, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "The robbery." With his head still hung low on his chest, Bruce sighed. Though he didn't feel it then, he would be grateful to his faithful butler later for centering his mind back on the work and away from the grief.

"The woman in white, she was their rabbit, their runner to set up the diversion," he examined out loud. "Then there was the two men, hired muscle, flunkies armed with Klashnikov Concern's AK-12s, most likely courtesy of this, Penguin," he grumbled. "Just bodies for the heavy lifting. Actually they kind of looked like-."

"Tweedledee and Tweedledum?" Alfred inquired with a raised eyebrow. "The Lewis Carroll characters?"

"Afraid so," Bruce replied, finding no humor in the circumstance.

"And the fourth one?" Alfred pressed on. Bruce's frown turned into a harsh scowl as he turned back to his computer.

"She's called Cheshire, an assassin from Tibet," he explained.

"Do you know her?" Alfred frowned.

"David Gray does," Bruce confirmed.

"So we have Cheshire, Tweedledee and Tweedledum and a White Rabbit," Alfred said in disbelief.

"There's still one more," Bruce said. "Someone behind it all. Tweedledee and 'Dum aren't smart enough, neither is White Rabbit and bank robberies are below Cheshire. Someone else was the mastermind." Alfred turned away to set down the cape and belt on a nearby silver table.

"What an odd assortment. Someone would have to be insane to orchestrate this."

"No, not insane," Bruce said distantly. "Mad."

"Do you think they're behind the bombings as well?" Alfred inquired.

"No," Bruce sighed as he sat down in the chair and stroked his bare chin. "Destroying the bridge cut off their escape and this Wonderland Gang was nowhere near the other two attacks. No Alfred, we're dealing with a serial killer." Alfred turned back around with a curious look.

"Sir?" he inquired. Bruce set to work on his computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard. On each of the three conjoined screens he pulled up data gathered from each attack.

"Three bombings, all corresponding to holidays listed on a calendar and each target related in some way to the holiday. Mama Sandra's on Mother's Day, The Gotham National Guard Armory on Memorial Day and now Flagstone Bridge on Flag Day," he listed off. On each screen, Alfred glanced over the video files of the destroyed penthouse restaurant, the old, ceremonial, red-brick building of the armory and now the ruins of twisted metal trusses and crumbled roadways of the bridge. It was sickening, days of celebration turned into chaos and fear.

"Horrendous," he said as he shook his head. "If this is true, then time is short before the next attack," he added gravely. Bruce felt his heart sink as his eyes closed. Four days was all he had until Father's Day.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Yes, the Batman is still my first and foremost concern. He's a menace to the law and provokes danger in the city. As DA, I will not stand for his kind of disregard for the law."

"Mr. Reeves, do you believe the Batman had anything to do with Flagstone Bridge's destruction?"

"I'm not ruling anything out." The image on the television changed to Alexander Knox, the anchorman of Gotham Action News, adding his closing remark on the Counselor's press conference. Harvey Bullock's eyes drifted away from the screen set on a trolley in the middle of the detective's office to the wide open door. After sitting planted behind his desk for so long, he needed to stretch his legs. Bullock picked away at his teeth with the toothpick, digging out the bits of ground beef from the cheese burger he'd just eaten. On his desk underneath the grease stained, wrapping paper of his fast-food meal, were the open files of information gathered from the recent bombings.

A new file had been created in the GCPD records, playing off of the press' newest creation, the Calendar Killer. Before Flag Day, the attacks were random and unlinked but a third attack following a pattern, meant that the case pertained to a serial killer. Standing hunched over his desk, he glowered down at the files. Dealing with a serial killer meant there was no chance of getting reassigned to the case he truly wanted.

He stood up and moved to the doorframe of the Detective's office set in the right hand wall of the bullpen. The floor of the bullpen was busily bustling about as officers weaved through the two columns of desks. At the head of the bullpen, beneath the shadow of the Commissioner's loft office was the wall of filing cabinets.

"Bullock," a voice called out. Harvey turned to find a uniformed officer approaching. Gerard Stevens stepped up from the left of the doorframe with a pen stuck on his ear beside the finely buzzed brown hair on the sides of his head. "You got a call on line three, an anonymous tip about another bombing," he said with a seriously alert look in his eyes. Bullock stared back then sighed as he lazily turned around back to his desk.

From the door he spotted the phone on his desk and frowned. The red bulb on the dock was dormant, no call was awaiting him. He reached out for the phone as he came to his desk and brought the handset to his ear. The dial tone buzzed in his ear even after he toggled to line three.

"They hung up," Bullock said as looked over at Stevens. The police officer's eyebrows arched as he frowned.

"Hung up? Again?" he inquired in disbelief. Bullock returned his attention to his phone and pressed the callback function. On the LCD screen of the dock, the phone number appeared. Bullock waited a moment with the handset on his ear. Officer Stevens stood curiously in wait. An obnoxiously loud beep sounded in Bullock's ear followed by the pre-recording of a woman's voice.

"We're sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected-." Bullock cut the scripted recording by pressing the button on the dock and waited for the dial tone again before pressing 'call back' for a second time. Once again the LCD glowed to life but a different ten digit phone number appeared.

"What the," he mumbled with a baffled tone as the same pre-recording spoke in his ear. Bullock hung up the phone with a controlled slam of his hand.

"Disconnected, huh?" Stevens inquired. "That's been happening a lot lately," he scoffed.

"Did they say anything about the bombing?" Bullock asked slightly perturbed.

"Yeah, said it was tomorrow at some parole housing apartment in Park Row called Father Ferguson's Halfway Housing," the officer said. Bullock glanced back at the phone, still holding the handset in his palm.

"It's unlike this city, someone giving anonymous tips," he said. "Anyone with intel like that would be demanding a hand out for it."

Taking a deep slow breath as he made his way down the floor of the bullpen, Jim Gordon suppressed his temper. On his heals a lean man in a fine blue suit chided away. Counselor Arthur Reeves seemed a new frequent visitor ever since he kicked off his public platform to prosecute the Batman. More and more his face seemed plastered on billboards and television as his campaign for District Attorney ran at full steam. Reeves was a man gambling all that he had on one play which made him a powerful annoyance to Captain Gordon and his officers.

"We are doing all that we can, Counselor," Gordon recited futilely.

"Don't give me that BS. If you were, you'd have had him by now," Reeves snapped. Gordon paused in the center of the room and turned to face the snide politician.

"What do you want from me?" Gordon flared, pressing his glasses back on his nose and his other hand on his hip.

"To do your job, Captain," Reeves accented with a jab of his finger into Gordon's chest. Jim felt his blood boil within his veins as his mustache bristled. He opened his mouth to release the flood of profane indignance but the words lodged in his throat as he felt the buzzing vibration of his cell phone. Jim dug into his pocket and peeked down at the screen. His daughter's picture filled the screen accompanied with her cell phone number. Jim pressed the red icon on the screen to reject the call, returning his furious attention on Reeves. Opening his mouth once again, Jim's words stuck again as he heard his name called out from across the bullpen.

"Captain Gordon," Bullock repeated as he approached the two men. In his large hands he grasped a file. His brow was sweaty with excitement. Gordon turned to the Detective with his hands rested on his waist.

"What is it, Detective?" he demanded impatiently.

"Half hour ago we got a call talking about another bombing tomorrow," he said. Gordon's brows lifted in astonishment.

"Where?" he asked anxiously.

"Father Fergusons Halfway House," Bullock explained. Gordon's sharp blue gaze drifted as he descended deep in thought.

"Father Fergusons on Father's Day," he muttered. "The Calendar Killer's M.O."

"There's more," Bullock said as he handed the file to Gordon. "The call was an anonymous tip that hung up once the information about the bombing was passed on. This has happened over two-hundred times in the last four months, I've highlighted each time a call into dispatch has followed this pattern," Bullock explained with a nod towards the open file in Gordon's hand. Sure enough, the thirteen page long list of dates, times, phone numbers and names was randomly highlighted on particular entries. Thumbing through the list, he found the first highlighted entry recorded on March fourteenth, the night Salvatore Maroni was arrested. Each matching entry thereafter was listed 'ANON.'

"Each of these entries have a different phone number," Gordon observed curiously.

"I can't explain that," Bullock said. Still looking on with darting eyes, Reeves scoffed.

"What does this have to do with anything?" he demanded.

"Each of those entries are tips for pickup of guys linked to the Batman," Bullock explained curtly to Reeves directly. "I checked on the files to verify," he said. "Which means the Batman knows about another attack and will probably be there." The scowl on Reeves' face vanished as a mask of delight took its place.

"Really? Well done Detective, Bullock, was it?" Reeves asked with his hand out. Bullock stared at him, glancing down at the hand with instant disgust.

"Let's get something clear, I think you're slime and I aint doing this for you or anyone else," he said with a glower. Watching intently, Gordon realized his sudden impulse to smirk but suppressed it. Repulsed, Reeves lowered his hand and glared at the large detective then at Gordon.

"If you'll excuse us, Counselor," Gordon said casually as he pushed Reeves aside. "We have a job to do." Reeves turned away with a cold snarl on his face. From behind he could hear the two police men think out loud to each other. "We know where they both are going to be, we can take care of them both at the same time."

"Let's just make sure we get them this time, I'm talking the whole deal."

Storming up the stairs along the left wall of the bullpen, Reeves climbed to the second level within the room, approaching the door of the office and knocking furiously on the door.

"Come in," the darkly toned voice of Commissioner Gillian Loeb called out. Reeves wrenched the door open and entered the office. "Counselor," Loeb greeted with his fingers tented.

"It seems tomorrow your boys are making a move against the Batman," Reeves said with frustration.

"So what's the problem?" Loeb inquired with a grin.

"Gordon! Bullock! They're not team players and they're the ones heading this operation," Reeves burst with panic. "I want them far away from this, put someone else on it," he demanded. Loeb shook his head as he leaned back in his chair.

"Nothing I can do there," he said. "Besides, you want Gordon leading this, he'll get the job done." Reeves snorted as he threw his hands from his waist up into the air.

"Great," he grumbled.

"Now there is something I can do," Loeb said. "I can add another player in the mix."

"Who?" Reeves inquired. Loeb grinned as he pressed a button on the dock of his phone.

"Cheyanne, please have Officer Howard Brandon report to my office," he spoke to the speaker grille on the dock then released the switch without waiting for a reply from his secretary. He grinned up at the Counselor confidently. Reeves stared back, puzzled yet anxious, wishing he could be as sure as the Commissioner was at that very moment.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The sweltering heat of mid-June passed as the sun dipped below the horizon of the city, leaving a comfortable warmth in the night sky. From what Bruce could tell, nothing had been done in preparation of the impending chaos that was sure to come. Parked across the street from the six story red brick apartment building was a plain silver Ford. With bare, black hubs and not a single scratch or marking of any kind on the car, it was a little too plain to be anything other than an undercover policeman on watch. His tip had been noted and it seemed that the GCPD was cautious not to make any moves to scare away their prey, including actually warning the apartment and initiating a full evacuation. Bruce glowered, realizing this would only make his job that much harder. Drifting his scope away from the car over to the apartment building, he glazed over the front sign set beside the door of the lobby. Father Ferguson's Halfway House was an old, run down single building that seemed anonymously stuck between to other largely similar buildings along the street. A mere block diagonal from the complex, the steeple of Gotham Cathedral pierced the clear night sky with the westward expanse of the vaulted chamber spanning the rest of the block. As Bruce waited, squatting low precariously on the apse of the grand building among a pair of grim, stone gargoyles, Alfred chimed in his ear.

"What about Harkin, Bradley? Arson, involuntary manslaughter, served twenty years in Stonegate Penitentiary," he offered as a fifth suggestion.

"No," Bruce rejected plainly.

"That's fine, we still have another seventy-three profile results of residents at Father Fergusons within your twenty year search parameter," Alfred quipped. "Such as this chap, Daye, Kennison, charged with petty theft, larceny, child abandonment, DUI, Drug possession." Bruce shook his head as he lowered the scope from his eye.

"No," he repeated automatically. Instantly Bruce tensed as he heard the distinct thud of rotors. He looked up into the sky directly above him. low over the sloping roof of the church, the nose of a white and blue helicopter peaked into view. The gust of the propeller tossed his black cape about. A bright beam of intense light struck where he stood from under the nose of the helicopter. Bruce brought his cape up over his face as a shroud from the blinding white light. He peeked up through the light, spotting the silhouette of a figure leaning out of the side door of the helicopter. He could barely discern in the glare something in the officer's hands and wasn't about to wait to find out what it was. Drawing a batarang from the dispenser on his belt, he cast it, aiming for the spotlight projector installed beneath the nose. The bulb shattered and the light fizzled out, casting the safety of the shadows around the black figure once again. The helicopter soared overhead, hovering out further away from the church and turning around for a better view. Bruce wasted no time at all, drawing his grapnel gun and firing a line to the steeple of the cathedral.

From the side of the helicopter the officer inside fumbled with the onboard spotlight.

"Negative, we lost visual of the target," the pilot reported into his radio." The officer fired a second beam of light to the spot where he had seen the Batman standing like one of the demonic gargoyles perched along the roof of the rear of the cathedral. The light projected on the shadowy rooftop but the space between the two gargoyles was empty.

"He's gone!" he called out over the pound of rotors.

Bruce hung against the side of the steeple as if he was rappelling its steep downgrade as he peered over his shoulder at Father Ferguson's. The air howled with the distant sounds of sirens. Far down the road, he spotted the flash of red and blue lights lick the walls of the buildings along the street. He grit his teeth irritably.

"Sir, I'm scanning police frequencies. You have less than three minutes before a platoon of police officers reach your location," Alfred warned with worry straining his voice. He like every other resident of Gotham City was well aware of the Gotham City Police Department's campaign to arrest the vigilante Batman.

"Idiots," Bruce growled. "If they scare Calendar Killer, there's no telling what he'll do," he observed out loud. "I've got to find him, now!" Ejecting the cable from the firing mechanism of the gun, he kicked off of the steeple and twisted around in midair before activating the rigid gliding frame of his cape. The wind caught and he soared through the air, aiming for the roof of the apartment building.

The howling siren blared in Gordon's ears as he clenched the edge of the open passenger's side window. In the other hand he held the microphone close to his mouth his thumb poised over the talk button.

"Visual contact reestablished," the voice of the helicopter pilot blurted through the speaker grille. "Target has landed on the roof of Ferguson's." Gordon pressed the button and spoke clearly into the microphone.

"I want all units to form a perimeter around the block and searchlights established around each corner," he barked. With his attention still focused on driving, the uniformed officer beside him frowned.

"No SWAT?" Merkel asked with a frown.

"For as long as we can afford," Jim answered grimly. There was nothing to suggest that simply calling out to the vigilante with a megaphone would actually persuade him to surrender, but Jim was determined to try everything and anything else before calling in Officer Howard Brandon and his reckless squad of trigger happy cowboys.

Bruce worked quickly, sliding the bladed edge of a batarang between the crack of the window sill, flipping the catch of the lock with a soft click. He slid the window open, forcing it up the worn track along the frame. He ducked inside, one leg at a time, entering the dank, shadowy bedroom. The bed was empty with old, stained sheets tossed lazily on the mattress. In the next room, the glow of the TV lit the bulging gut of a middle aged man lounging fast asleep in an armchair. On the dingy carpet, a bottle lay on its side with its contents leaving a damp stain from a recent spill. Bruce slipped across the floor, past the snoring resident straight to the door. Softly opening and closing it as he made his way to the hallway. The corridor was just as poor and run down as the apartment. The paint peeled off the walls and the floor sills were discolored. The lighting of the corridor was poor, eerily flickering on and off from faulty wiring. Bruce stood silently in the middle of the corridor with his cape draped around him as he searched with his eyes.

"Alfred, I need something," he pleaded as he looked up and down the twenty door corridor.

"Just a moment, Sir, I may have something," Alfred replied in his ear. "I'm cross referencing each of the bombing locations with the list of residents within your twenty years parameter," his words trailed off as he hummed and mumbled in thought. "There!" he exclaimed. "The only result to come up is that Kennison Daye fellow, a former munitions specialist in the US Army National Guard. Medical discharge, later charged with petty theft," Alfred read from the computer screen.

"Munitions expert means he has experience with explosives," Bruce reasoned out loud. "What room number?" he demanded.

"302," Alfred answered briskly. Bruce charged down the hall way to the far end where the stairs of the top floor descended to the floors below. He vaulted over the rickety, wooden banister, plunging down through the square spiral of the staircase. Reaching the third floor, he caught the ledge with his fingertips. Grunting, he pulled his dangling form up, climbing over the banister, standing at the end of the third floor corridor. Crouched low, Bruce found the worn apartment number and approached the door quietly, careful not to touch it in anyway. He crouched low, rooting around his utility belt for his PDA and the fiber optic camera cable, plugging the cable into the port. Bruce stuck the head of the cable under the crack of the doorsill, watching the screen on his PDA. The black and white image came through clearly but was difficult to discern in the shadows. Bruce watched intently, waiting for something to happen. A shape drifted about in the pitch darkness, someone was definitely inside. Bruce retracted the cable and coiled it back into one of the pouches. "Sir," Alfred called out again. "I'm sending you Mr. Daye's booking photograph from GCPD records." Bruce looked back down at the PDA, spotting the flashing icon on the menu panel of the touchscreen. Tapping the icon, the twenty four year old mugshot of a man in his late twenties. His high forehead was topped by thin brown hair. His face was full, a rigid jaw lost in the folds of skin on his thick neck. Bruce had no way of knowing whether the person inside was Kennison, but he now had an idea of what to look for. Stepping back, Bruce kicked hard at the door, crashing wide open. Bruce slid inside, standing like a statue in the shadows with the dim lighting of the hallway behind him. The room was quiet and still except for the figure that spun hastily on his heels, startled by the crashing door. From his peripherals, Bruce spotted a stirring figure, mumbling with terrified alarm through the gag across his mouth, struggling against the ropes binding his arms and legs. At the feet of the man standing before him, a small red light flashed on a complicated device. Wires entwined a circuit board feeding around a bundle of pipes all bound tightly together by black electrical tape. It was a simple pipe bomb with a remote relay that doubtless, Daye had clenched in his hands. Despite the shroud of heavy shadows, Bruce could see the panic in his cold eyes, felt his heaving breath of anxiety.

"It's over, Daye," he growled as he drew another batarang from the dispenser on his belt beneath the cover of his enclosing, black cape.

"There are still eight minutes and twenty-one seconds before the day is up," a sharp cold voice answered. The man lifted a remote over his head threateningly. "But I am more than willing to end it now if you take a single step more," he hissed. Bruce moved faster than a flash of lightning, bursting open his cape as he cast the batarang. The bladed edges spun in the air, stabbing the man's wrist. He howled in pain, letting the device fall to the carpet. Again Bruce moved, launching across the floor and tackling the man before he could even clench his bleeding wound. The two crashed hard but Bruce recovered, dragging the man to his feet. In close proximity, Bruce could make out his face more clearly.

"You're not Kennison Daye, who are you?" he demanded with a shake, jarring the man's circular frame spectacles from his face. Though relatively similar, the faces did not match. He seemed nearly the same exact age as the face depicted in the picture Alfred had sent him, a picture that was twenty four years old. The man's dark, wiry thin hair hung low to his shoulders from the horseshoeing roots around his balding head. His thick face was struck by an expression of terror, the whites of his eyes glowing dully around the heavily darkened circles around the sockets. "I said, who are you?" Bruce growled with bared teeth as he pulled the man closer to him.

"Kennison Daye was the name of the man I was forced to call 'father," he answered venomously.

"You've been setting off the bombs, why?" Bruce demanded menacingly. Daye just stared back, the terror gone from his dull eyes.

"To erase the bad days," he said with a sick grin. "So that I never again have to relive the night in that restaurant where she that should've been my wife rejected me. No loss, all those people were horrid parents, leaving their children at home for a night of indulgence." Bruce glowered at him, utterly sickened as he listened to Daye's every word. "Dear old Dad would never have become the bitter monster that he was had he never been forced out of the Army," he continued. "My misery might've actually ended far sooner had that stranger never stopped me from jumping off the bridge and of course, as you've figured out this was once Dad's place," he sneered with darting eyes around the room. Still reeks of vodka, had plenty of fond childhood memories in this festering pit," he added spitefully. Bruce glowered, looking into Daye's eyes, not a single hint of remorse. He held no reservations whatsoever to destroying the apartment even with himself and everyone else in it.

"You're deranged," Bruce muttered.

"I prefer determined, motivated. Finally able to take control of the years I have left, one day at a time," Daye grunted. Coming from outside Bruce heard the approaching wail of sirens from the fleet of police vehicles.

"Sir, the police are setting a perimeter," Alfred reported into his ear. Suddenly a blinding light shot from the outside, beaming in through the window. Bruce squinted slightly, his masked face illuminated by the beam. He glowered down at Daye.

"The police are here, now you can count away your days in Stonegate." Reaching back his balled fist, he threw one solid punch. Daye was no fighter and was out instantly. His body went limp in Bruce's grip. He dropped him to the floor then flopped him onto his large stomach, pulling his arms back and securing his wrists with flex-cuffs. Sure that the maniac was secured, Bruce stood up, moving briskly to the explosive device in the middle of the room. The red light still blinked as he crouched down beside it to inspect its functions. It was a simple design, easily rigged by someone without very much demolitions expertise. From a compartment in his belt, Bruce produced an advanced multi tool, knowing that the wire cutters would come in handy on this night's outing. He followed the wire working on the device and deduced the correct wire for detonator. With a squeeze of his gloved hand around the tool, the wire severed in two. Bruce took a breath as he watched the flashing red light go out.

"Sir, there is chatter on the police band, you are running out of time," Alfred reported again with strained patience. Bruce caught a glimpse of the improvised remote detonator laying on the floor, an old cellular phone, clearly tampered with, being held together by black electrical tape identical to the bomb. He picked it up, looking it over briefly before grasping it in both hands and breaking it in half. Gazing about the room he caught a glimpse of the hostage still tied up on the floor. He began to move in his direction when Alfred barked in his ear again. "Master Bruce, leave him for the police." Bruce paused, staring into the man's terror stricken eyes in the darkness. After a brief moment of thought, Bruce quietly turned away, back to the door. Standing in the doorway facing the hall, a small beep sounded from behind him. Bruce's blood froze in his veins as he glanced back over his shoulder, fixing his focus on the device still in the middle of the front room. In the illumination of the spotlight, Bruce noticed the blink of the red light as another beep chimed over the sounds of the outside world. Another blink and beep followed, then another. A weary cackle seeped into Bruce's ears from across the room.

"11:58:47, Batman," Daye groaned, still on his stomach. He lifted his head and fixed Bruce with a crazed stare. "The day's not yet over, and some days, you just can't get rid of a bomb."


End file.
